


If He Knows

by shamelessmash



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Hurts So Good, Internal Monologue, M/M, Pillow & Blanket Forts, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Sad, Texting, bed sharing, before stag night, sherlock POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 03:05:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11819940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shamelessmash/pseuds/shamelessmash
Summary: I imagine mornings: John handing me a cup of tea, hair sticking out at odd angles. How he would bend down to kiss me, smiling fondly as he pulls away. The way his skin crinkles at the corner of his eyes, the way his skin looks in the morning light. The soft sigh as he sits in his chair with the morning paper, the way his toes curl in the carpet, the way he rolls his shoulders before sinking deeper into his seat.I watch him, how he is when he is content, as it should be.As he deserves. Happy. With me.





	If He Knows

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this June 1st. Just sort of... happened. 
> 
> It's very different from what I normally post, but I'm pleasantly surprised by the result.
> 
> Thank you very much to Nautilicious and Pipmer for betaing, it help enormously to get through this hot mess that was in desperate need of fresh eyes.

 

Sometimes I wonder if he knows.

I’ve come to a point where I’m fascinated by how intensely I long for John. Not just in the sense of physical desire. No, it’s much more potent, like a rich desire that consumes. So deeply rooted in me that my chest aches at the mere thought of him. It’s been present for so long that the pain has become familiar. How I crave to kiss him, to hold him, to feel his body against mine. The only thing that soothes the ache is his company, which has become rather sparse lately.

Because John is with Mary now. That’s the life he has chosen. It’s what he wants.

A life with Mary.

I like Mary. She’s… nice. She’s… good. For him.

I’m good for him too. I understand him. Better than her. Then again, Mary never stood a chance, I understand John better than himself. I know what he likes.

On rare occasions, like tonight, I go to my mind palace and review everything I’ve observed about John. I run scenarios. Scenarios of John. If he were still here, living with me. If Mary wasn’t in the picture…

If I hadn’t jumped…

I let the real details intertwine with the data I’ve stored over the years, and together they create the perfect rendering of _us_.

It hurts afterwards. Of course it hurts. But on nights like these, the ache feels _so good._

I imagine mornings: John handing me a cup of tea, hair sticking out at odd angles. How he would bend down to kiss me, smiling fondly as he pulls away. The way his skin crinkles at the corner of his eyes, the way his skin looks in the morning light. The soft sigh as he sits in his chair with the morning paper, the way his toes curl in the carpet, the way he rolls his shoulders before sinking deeper into his seat.

I watch him, how he is when he is content, as it should be.

As he deserves. Happy. With me.

I know exactly how John would look up and smile before folding the section he was reading and tossing it to me. I had spent so many mornings during my time undercover, reading local papers, and longing to look up and see John there sipping his tea. It had become a comforting image during lonely nights.

I drift from the scenario to the last time I saw John.

The arson case.

We had met up at the Yard. John had looked so at ease in the police department, so different then the first few months of our partnership. I was proud to see John standing in front of the case board with Lestrade. I watched them talk until John turned to see if I was arriving soon, when he spotted me. His smile was barely there, but it illuminated his face, his eyes betraying how happy he was to see me. I hid that I momentarily forgot how to breathe.

The case was solved in a few hours, from the crime scene to a bowling alley in the West End, where we found and caught the suspect. We shared a cab after. He happily agreed to join me at Baker Street. John’s hand stayed on the seat between us the entire ride back. It had felt like an opening, an invitation. It was right there, all I had to do was reach out and…

The cab dropped us off in front of the black door. I paid and savoured John’s small smile as he climbed out of the cab.

He put the kettle on while I cleared the chairs and floor just enough for us to sit comfortably. I considered discussing wedding details when I noticed his hand tremor. They’ve become more frequent. They’re absent on cases, as they should be, but they always come back. It could be a number of things. Probably a combination of everything. John does tend to accumulate.

He closed his hand into a fist in the attempt to control the tremor and looked up. Our eyes met. A shiver ran down my back.

John. Here. With me.

Alone.

That moment had lasted less than a second but I pause it and watch, change the perspective, examine when our eyes met. And in that single moment, an electrical current could have passed between us without a touch. As if we were linked together in a metaphysical sense, and in that moment the connection was clear and bright.

It’s always there, ever present, but it’s stronger when we’re together. Because we become one. We intertwine so perfectly that the edges of where I start and John begins are blurred. And in those instances, a calmness takes over me, my soul soothed, because I am exactly where I should be. I’ve found the missing part of me that I didn’t know was missing, that I didn’t know I had been living without for my entire life.

Then John looked away, cleared his throat and hid behind the newspaper. As his face disappeared behind the page, it was as if he’d hidden the sun. I could tell he wasn’t reading just by how he was holding it.

“Something on your mind?”

My words startled him, but he laughed it off. It still fascinated him; still thought I could read his mind. He didn’t realise he was an open book, didn’t even try to guard himself. I would have thought that after all these years, he would have learned how to mask his emotions.

Or he knows it’s useless to hide from me.

He put the paper aside, leaned back in his chair and looked at me. Looked at me expectantly, as if he was waiting for me to read his mind again. The fingers of his left hand fiddled with the fabric of the armrest.

Sometimes I wonder if he knows.

Does he do those little things that make my heart melt on purpose or has he always done them and they’ve just grown on me over the years? Since when have I started craving those little domestic attentions? Since when have I started actively thinking of an excuse to see him again? How I hope for a case that will last longer than a few hours. Long enough for him to stay. Long enough to survive his absences.

Long enough for me to feel alive when he’s not there.

I never do.

My mind drifts back to the memory of the case.

“Something on your mind?”

“It’s fine. Just… thinking about the case.”

“What about the case?”

“How you saw a locker key and knew the gun would be there.”

“Because any proper criminal knows that if you tell the police you threw your gun in the Thames, there is little to no chance of finding it, so they won’t pursue the search. But he was idiot, and thought a locker would be good enough.”

I was rewarded with John’s breathless chuckle.

“Brilliant.”

The word sounds like an afterthought, as if he wasn’t complimenting me on my intellect but rather stating a fact. The praise rippled through my body as intensely as if we had just kissed. I had to fight to keep my eyes from falling half-lidded, and had to bite back the small moan of pleasure by trapping my bottom lip between my teeth.

John’s eyes lowered to my mouth before looking up, pupils dilated.

Sometimes I wonder if he knows.

I wonder if he is purposely pushing my buttons. If he wants me to lose control and push myself out of my chair and straddle his lap, grinding onto his dick until it becomes hard under me. If he wants me to grab his jumper and pull him closer and guide his lips to mine. Hear him moan my name, feel his hands on my hips, sliding them up my ribs and chest up to my neck. Abandoning myself in his hands, giving up whatever illusion of control I thought I had.

I can’t say when it happened, what exactly changed, how it all transitioned from being flatmates, to colleagues, to friends, to… this, whatever this is.

“Thank you.” I murmured back.

An hour later we were laughing together with our second drink in hand.

“God, I haven’t laughed this hard since…”

“Since the Poison Giant.”

John’s head fell back, eyes closed, and he laughed even harder. Seeing him doubled over in his chair was breathing life back into me. How I had missed moments like these, just sitting together and talking, enjoying each others company. I laughed with John. His laugh was infectious, but the truth was, I couldn’t have hidden my joy in that moment even if I had tried.

“I miss this.”

My breath caught in my throat when I heard John’s words.

“So do I.”

I was unguarded, all the love and longing evident on my face. Still high from our giggling, I got lost in his blue eyes, deep and vibrant like the sky at dawn, just before the first rays of sun appear in the horizon. It happened again. Another moment where the connection was clear. They’ve been more frequent as of late. Because we’ve been separated too often and for far too long. The moment felt different from our previous connections. It was deeper. More loaded. Vibrating with everything between us, all the things left unsaid. As if in this moment, something could change, evolve.

It was all I could do not to close the physical distance between us.

Instead, John changed the subject.

Even though I was sitting, I felt my body drop, the sensation as visceral as falling from Bart’s roof. The high I’d felt mere seconds ago made the plunge so overwhelming I wanted to go lock myself in my room and take out the small box hidden in my dresser. But I stayed in place, unwilling to give up a single second of his company, despite the pain of it.

There was an uncomfortable pause before John offered me another drink. I let him, using the time during his trip to the kitchen to school my features. When he returned with a fresh drink for each of us, I had started monologuing on the subject he suggested, and acted as if the moment hadn’t occurred. As if my chest didn’t feel like a empty abandoned vessel.

Too soon it was past midnight. I’m always tempted to invite him to share my bed. I know not to. Because I wouldn’t be able to resist touching him. He’s not free, and me touching him will not end well, no matter how much I want to. No matter how much he seems to want me to.

Instead, I watched him from my leather chair and tried not to imagine him pushing me against my bedroom door and reducing me to single syllable words by growling in my ear what he wanted to do to me. How his hands would feel in my hair as his teeth sank into my skin.

I had to look away. It was one thing to indulge in those fantasies alone. It was another when he was there, sitting in his chair, looking at me like it was exactly what he wanted me to do.

But I won’t.

I turned away, I stayed still, held it all in, the entirety of my affection, respect and unwavering love of John Watson.

I just wish it wasn’t so painful to do so.

I stayed in my armchair and watched John get up and shrug on his coat, his limbs sluggish and a little tipsy. He stood in the doorway and our eyes met. Since my return, our goodbyes are essential, especially for John. No matter that he sometimes hides himself behind the paper, or pulls back from… this. We both know that if anything should happen to either of us, the consequences of a lack of a proper goodbye would be devastating.

Our eyes met, and our metaphysical selves embraced one last time before John left.

I pause the memory there, just before we brake apart. I don’t want to see it again, can’t deal with the mixture of pain, longing and the crushing desire that had swept over me the moment he left.

Instead, I stay in our shared connection, open, bright, and soothing. I stay in it while I touch myself. Imagine all the ways I could worship John’s body, all the ways I could show him, make him feel the depth of my love. I come silently, and instantly regret masturbating when the post-orgasm hormones dissipate, making the hole in my chest deepen, darken. Because the fantasy just enhances the abandonment and despair that comes with John’s absence.

I roll to the side, hug my knees to my chest until I fall asleep, my cheeks wet.

* * *

 

A month later, John appeared in the doorframe of my bedroom at two am.

I didn’t say anything, didn’t think, just took one look at him and pulled back the covers.

John stared a moment before he took a deep breath and started to unbutton his shirt. He put his clothes on the chair next to the dresser and slid into bed wearing only his pants. My eyes were wide open, panicked but excited that John was in my bed, so close that I could feel his warmth. We lay on our sides, facing each other, our eyes meeting in what little light filtered through the curtains.

We stayed silent, unmoving for long minutes. John was about to say something when I reached out and pressed my fingers to his lips. He looked worried at first, but I simply kept the pad of my fingers there and waited for him to understand. He frowned as he watched my hand, but eventually looked up to meet my eyes. The silence stretched between us until he gave a single nod.

Gently, my fingers moved from his lips to his jaw, my thumb brushing against his lower lip. My hand slid down his neck. Down to his shoulder. As if approaching a wild animal, I gently pushed his shoulder so John would roll onto his back, his eyes never leaving mine.

Slowly, tentatively, I lowered my head against his chest, my ear pressed over his heart.

I counted 57 beats before I felt John’s body start to relax. Another 22 for his breathing to slow. I lost count when I felt his hand on my back, the other buried in my hair. It didn’t move, simply caressed a curl between thumb and forefinger.

I wanted to cry in relief at how right, how perfect it felt, almost like a dream. The constant deep burn slowly lifting and drifting away like smoke. The sudden absence of pain was euphoric, like morphine after hours, days of pain.

My body would have been happy to go further. It would have been so easy in our state of undress, but this… this was enough. This was perfect.

I tried to stay awake as long as I could, to indulge, but my body succumbed to sleep quickly. As did John’s. I woke up the next day a few minutes before him. A few minutes of peaceful bliss in John’s arms. His breathing changed when he woke, his arms tightening as he dug his nose into my hair. I wanted to cry of joy at the sensation.

That’s when John froze.

That’s when he remembered he wasn’t home. Remembered the body in his arms wasn’t Mary’s.

From that point on, John’s body was tense. Tense with remorse, with all the things we chose to leave unsaid.

I forced myself to look at the ceiling while John dressed. I wanted to remember him getting into bed with me, not leaving me like a guilty lover.

Only I was weak and peeked. I saw him buttoning up his shirt, head low, shoulders curled. John finally looked up, and I focused on the shade of blue of his eyes in the morning light, because all the other details of his body screamed out how much pain he was in. The same as mine. I waited for him to speak. Because if I did, the only thing that would come out was ‘stay’. So, I focused on the blue, that endless, heartbreaking blue, like the morning sky before the first light, before he blinked it away.

And left me without a word.

* * *

 

I didn’t text him that day. Best not to.

I waited until late afternoon on the second day. No response.

On the third day, I told him I had a cold case that required his medical expertise. It took him five hours to respond.

_Sorry. Shift at A &E._

My heart sank.

I knew it was true. He was covering for a colleague home with the flu. But it was also his way of saying he wasn’t ready. I knew why. Why he needed time away from me.  For the same reasons that he shouldn’t come and spend the night. For the same reasons that we chose not to speak about it. For the same reasons that it felt more satisfying to simply hold each other than to have sex.

_Sorry. Shift at A &E._

The words felt like reality was slapping me in the face. I threw my phone across the sitting room and did not look at it until the following day. I pushed the button and the screen lit up.

No new notifications.

I cursed the phone, screamed, and wished I had John’s gun to shoot it. Instead I threw the nearest book against the wall and ignored Mrs Hudson’s broom pounding against the ceiling.

I moved towards the insulting device several times during the day, stared at the blank screen and repeated to myself that I didn’t need him. I didn’t used to. That I was an idiot for letting myself get involved. It didn’t really work, but I tried to believe it for a few hours, used it to counter the pain while I gathered samples of all the flammable items in the flat and burned them one after the other. I told Mrs. Hudson it was for an experiment when she yelled up the stairs, complaining about the smell and smoke.

I picked up my violin and after a few minutes put it aside, unsatisfied by the outlet it provided. I was too amped up, couldn’t find anything to calm myself down. I flung myself onto the couch and slid my hand down my pants. I pictured John’s face contorted in pleasure as I took him in my mouth. Imagined him pulling my hair as he guided me, showed me when to suck and when to lick, preened at the moans and curses it elicited from him. I came silently, and cursed the tears running down my cheeks. Sobbed at the misfortune of knowing how to make the most important person in my life be as happy as he deserves and not being given the chance to do so.

I finally picked up the device around three am and read through our last texts. My thumb hovered over the keys, looking for an excuse to text him, even if in the end, all I want is to say Hi. Come home. I miss you.

I love you.

I held the phone to my chest, closed my eyes, and fought back the memories of that night. Instead I imagined him eyeing his phone, hoping to get a text from me, hoping for a case, hoping for a good reason to tell Mary he’d be home late. Hoping for a reason to see me again without feeling guilty. Because that was the root of it all, wasn’t it? Guilt. Because he’d rather be with me, than with Mary.

I fall asleep on the couch, phone over my heart.

* * *

 

Late in the evening on the fifth day, the sound of the text alert startled me in the middle of an experiment. Could be Lestrade at a crime scene, but… could it be John?

My heart pounded against my chest as I leaned to my right to read the notification on the lock-screen. The sight of John’s name made my heart flutter.

_Did you manage to figure out the cold case without me?_

I stared at his words and considered what to do. My gloved hands were full, I was at a rather crucial part of the experiment, and preferred to finish my task before responding.

But in all truth, I was hurt and I wanted to make him _stew_.

It was childish. But I also didn’t want to seem to eager. Even if I was. Much more than I cared to be.

In the end, I became so caught up in what I was doing that I forgot about John’s text. It’s when I needed my phone an hour later that I was reminded. I opened the message and started composing four replies before sending the last one.

_I did, but had no one to show it off to. -SH_

_I miss you too._

A lump lodged itself in my throat and my eyes watered. I instantly regret making him wait.

_Anything on tonight?_

_Still undecided between new experiment or cold case. You? - SH_

_At the medical conference in Glasgow. Tonight is the opening cocktail. Dreadfully boring._

_Medical conference? -SH_

_Deleted it?_

_Possible. I don’t understand why you insist on going to those. -SH_

_To keep my medical licence._

_Tedious. -SH_

_Wish you were here, deducing everyone and making this less tedious._

I smiled and wiped away the tear that it caused to fall from my eyes.

_Even if you did manage to drag me to one of those, I wouldn’t step foot at that cocktail party. I’d lock myself up in our room. -SH_

It’s only once my thumb had already pressed the send button that I realised what I had written. John’s reply was immediate.

_Our room?_

I stared at the screen, frozen in panic. Three dots appeared. I held my breath.

_Am I locked inside with you?_

I read the words again and again, and deduced that John must have been on his third drink. His question was so forward of him, especially after five days of silence, that I risked it.

 _Obviously_. -SH

I could imagine John’s low chuckle at my response. This was much flirtier than our usual banter, yet still familiar.

_And how are we distracting ourselves in our locked room?_

_You’re the one who convinced me to accompany you to the tedious event, you figure it out. -SH_

_I suggested deducing strangers at the cocktail. You are the one who locked us in, you figure it out._

I pictured John, arms crossed, telling me off in that low calm tone of his, but his eyes bright. This entire conversation had taken a turn that was becoming very risky. Which was probably why it was so tempting.

_How drunk are you? -SH_

_Enough._

So very tempting.

_Remember Baskerville? -SH_

_Yes. But I don’t…?_

_Our room had the perfect configuration for a blanket fort and I never got the chance to try because you were so angry that night. -SH_

_Are you saying you want to pass the time by making a blanket fort?_

_Yes. -SH_

I waited for John’s response for five minutes, staring at the screen until I put it aside and paced the room. Another five minutes passed. Just as I started rummaging through one of my many cigarette stashes, the notification rang.

It was a picture of John’s hotel room.

_Where do I start?_

I laughed, the sound filled with surprise and relief.

I joined him and made a blanket fort in the sitting room. We spent the evening texting, sending pictures.  We called each other on skype once we were both in our forts and talked until John couldn’t stop yawning.

That night I fell asleep imagining what it would have been like to sleep in John’s arms in our blanket fort in Baskerville.

* * *

 

I heard the key in the door downstairs before it opened and closed with a too familiar force.

John.

John was here.

Why was John here in the middle of the afternoon without a warning?

I stayed still, my heartbeat loud in my ears as I listened to his footfalls and the creaking of the hardwood steps. I pressed my lips against the blade of my hands to keep my face neutral, even though I feel overwhelmed by his impromptu visit. I watched John arrive from the corner of my eye, listened to the familiar sounds: his satisfied sigh as he took off his jacket and hanged it on one of the hooks next to the door. The sound of running water as he filled the kettle, the squeak of the cupboards as he rummaged for the teacups and tea bags. The delicate sound of water filling the cups. His much slower walk back to the sitting room.

I opened my eyes when he put my cup of tea on the table to my right. Our eyes meet, a wordless greeting, before he turned to sit, and started sorting through my post.

I know I’m supposed to ask why he’s here, even though I don’t have to. I can see the argument with Mary in his frown, shoulders and left hand. Not sure what the topic had been. Balance of probability leans towards me, but honestly, I don’t care. I’m just grateful he’s here.

It takes about fifteen minutes for his frown to disappear completely. For his body to relax, shoulders unclenching and dropping, the weight of his troubles lifting away. I feel the worry and anxiety leave me as well, and eventually we are both open enough for our metaphysical selves to restore our bond.

After a few more minutes of silence, John moves from my post to the emails from my website.

“Dinner?” he asks without looking up.

His tone is calm, but I cab hear the hope in it.

“Thai?”

He nods and his eyes dip to my lips as he licks his.

“Extra spring rolls?”

I’d love to chase his tongue with mine.

“Obviously.”

To taste his lips with my own.

“How about this one?” He passes me my phone. “Something about missing shoes.”

I skim the client’s email but am focused on John’s excited buzz, hoping for a case, a chase, anything to give us an outlet. The case is nothing more than a four, but I can’t refuse John.

“Fine. But food first so you don’t get stroppy.”

John scoffs but laughs. “At least you’re eating without putting up a fight.”

“I do try to listen to my doctor.”

“Is that so?” He takes out his phone.

“Only a fool doesn’t listen to his doctor.” I wink. “Now, what do you know about shoes?”

He is laughing when the restaurant answers his call. As John orders our dinner, his bright eyes never leaving mine, I wonder if he knows.

What would happen if he knows?

**Author's Note:**

> I hope my french isn't showing too much in the verbs, for some reason we just couldn' figure out what verb tenses to use, but I think we managed to make it work.
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope it was as painful for you reading as it was for me to write.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://shamelessmash.tumblr.com/)


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